


In Abundance

by Cascaper



Series: Fools and Lovers [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/F, hang on to yer hats and let's hope these girls get through intact, i mean like, mentally intact lol, what time is it? IT'S WEDDING TIME
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22717555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cascaper/pseuds/Cascaper
Summary: If there's one thing the Warrior of Light can be sure of, it's that realm-shaking disasters rarely hold off for long. The date is set, the guests confirmed... and now the brides & co. just have to get through it all in one piece. For whatever they do- or, more often, do not- ask for, they shall surely receive... in abundance.-Complete, as of 3/3/2020~
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Series: Fools and Lovers [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1511465
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	1. Right as Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [louderthanthedj](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=louderthanthedj).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sélysette is wont to put too much pressure on herself.

She can do this.

Sélysette checks her list for the millionth time. The Sanctum décor arrived safely; she oversaw its unpacking and arrangement all this past afternoon. Ditto the orchestrion rolls, with the written instructions on which shall be played when. She’s packed up both brides’ wardrobes for the ceremony, and her own, as well as a small case of cosmetics. (Livy’s never used them, but Gogoha and Sélysette certainly do and will.) The Carline Canopy is well supplied to prepare the menu for the reception, and the wine she’d helped Tataru pack got there just fine, so that’s all right…

And still she cannot shake the feeling that she’s missing something.

Sély leans on the mantelpiece, squinting at the list in the firelight. All the other lights in the suite are off, of course; she can’t be keeping the others awake with her fussing. They need their sleep for the coming two days. Besides, it’s a fine bright fire—it illuminates the sitting room and open kitchen very well.

Her feet are a little cold on the hearth, though she is wearing one of her thicker pairs of stockings. Perhaps she’s been standing still for too long. She would check her watch on the subject, but it’s been on her bedside table for ages now, where she’d laid it in what turned out to be false anticipation of her own rest. She shifts them an ilm or two closer to the fire, pressing her toes hard into the new spot of warmth.

Damn it, she should be in bed herself. She knows she should. But tomorrow is her _sister’s wedding_ , and it has to go right. Did she get the tea packets to the Sanctum– yes, good, Livy won’t want for that particular comfort in the bells before the ceremony. And the boxes of same to the Canopy. Not only carline, but Ishgardian, and Doman green; it is well known among the Warrior’s many friends that a gift of tea goes a long way. Those who do not wish to drink alcohol will not find themselves without choices. Mother Miounne herself promised that the Canopy would make its specialty fruit punch for the occasion.

She pushes off from the mantel and drags a footstool over to the hearth. Perhaps if she sits down she’ll be able to think better.

She is still staring at the page (with eyes that have gone a bit bleary) when the distant sound of running water and snatches of song come to her ears. She really must be tired; surely no one else is awake just now. She puts the noises out of her mind, trying to concentrate. She fails.

Well if she can’t sleep, nor think, she may as well put on some coffee. She sets the list aside and drags herself to her feet.

Several minutes later, Sély has a fine pot of ink-black coffee simmering steadily over the fire. Her cuffs are slightly damp—getting the water from sink to coffeepot proved tricky—but really, no harm has been done. She stands watching it finish brewing, wondering why she’s never properly paid attention to steam before, and how beautifully it curls into the air…

“Good morning!” sings a cheery voice from the hallway.

Sély twitches round to discover none other than Livorette standing in the doorway, positively daisy-fresh and beaming. “Hm? Oh, Livy. You’re up.”

“I know!” her sister grins. “My eyes just popped open about a bell ago and I couldn’t go back to sleep for the life of me. So I tiptoed out to the bathroom and here I am. And you’ve got coffee on! Ah, you’re an angel.” She darts over to Sély’s side and catches her up in a hug.

“It’s not ready yet,” Sély answers, stifling a yawn. “Go see if your bride is up. I’ll get some breakfast going as well in a minute.”

Livorette flits happily off down the hall again, and Sély is just in time to take the coffee off the heat.

When Livy wakes, Gogoha cannot be far behind. Sély pours her own mug first and sets out two more. She may be tired, but every sip of coffee banishes her fatigue bit by bit until she feels very nearly herself. By the time the brides re-emerge she’s got toast, butter and a bit of sausage ready, along with some of the leftover apple tarts they’d picked up yesterday morning.

Gogoha does not appear to share her spouse-to-be’s giddiness; she is certainly awake, but markedly more subdued. Livy veers between buoyant excitement and soft-voiced concern, reaching over to steady her love with little reassuring touches, murmuring things to make her smile. That is precisely how it should be, Sély thinks—let Livorette be worried only about herself and her fiancée. Leave the logistics to others.

Like shoes, for instance. Neither Livy nor Gogoha seem to be wearing theirs yet. Sély remedies this by whisking herself off to make her own hasty toilette (wash her face, smooth her hair, change clothes, clean her teeth) and returning with everyone’s boots. “Here you go, get those on.”

“Are we leaving so soon?” Livy asks, surprised.

“As soon as you’ve finished eating. I’d rather have the pair of you settled in the dressing rooms as swiftly as possible.” Sély takes her seat at the table and tugs on her own footwear before she turns her attention to her plate.

There is a brief silence. Gogoha breaks it. “Sélysette, are you sure you’re all—”

“Yes,” Sély cuts in, then bites her tongue for her rudeness. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to interrupt. But I am well, I assure you. Now please, eat up? We need to be out to the Sanctum by noon at the latest.”

They manage to get there by a quarter after eleven, as it turns out. All to the good. Sély coordinates with Claribel to get the right outfits hung up in the right rooms. It is supposed to be bad luck for the spouses to see each other before the ceremony, but that proverbial chocobo has already escaped the stable; no sense barring the door now. Besides, Sélysette explains in an undertone, it is vital to Miss Gogoha’s nerves that Miss Livorette be allowed to sit with her as much as possible.

“Shall we promise to part a half bell before it starts?” Livy offers cheerfully. “Will that satisfy tradition?”

Claribel looks uncertain, but she nods. “I suppose it will.”

There is an antechamber for the guests to wait in, when they arrive, which they will do several bells from now. Sélysette thus takes it for a temporary dressing room when she has finished reviewing the state of the Sanctum itself (pristine), and tries to steady her own nerves.

Her hair does not look half bad when she’s got it loose and brushed it out. She will do it specially for today- not the usual two braids, oh no. Today she gathers it all back and twists it carefully into a chignon at the nape of her neck, pinning it into place with great care. The shorter strands in front of her ears remain loose, as ever, but she has always fancied they frame her face rather nicely. And then, of course, there is her oldrose hairpin; it never fails to look elegant, the brilliance of its red petals looking all the brighter against her flaxen tresses. She will save that for last.

It is true that she hasn’t got a _new_ dress, exactly. But her gray wool frock has an elegance of its own, and Tataru very kindly arranged to have it cleaned for today. The black ribbon collar and hem look brand new, gleaming as if freshly dyed in the soft light from the wall sconces; the gold embroidery on the cuffs seems almost to have been polished. She almost hates to take it from its hanger. Let it air out a while longer, she decides.

Speaking of Tataru- there is a soft thump as the doors open, and another as they shut, and here is the woman herself bustling in. “Sélysette, there you are!” she exclaims, coming over to clasp Sély’s hand in greeting.

“Oh, Tataru! How long have you been here?” Sély does her best to smile.

“Just a few minutes,” Tataru begins, then pauses. A faint frown appears on her little brow. “Oh dear. You seem to have had a long night.”

“It’s nothing,” Sélysette demurs. “I’ve had my coffee; I’ll make it through.”

Tataru’s frown deepens a touch. “Come, sit with me a moment.” She leads the way to one of the spotless white sofas. Sély rises from her seat and follows.

“Let me have a look at you,” Tataru says, gently. She kicks off her shoes, stands on the cushions, peers into Sélysette’s face and tuts in concern. “Now I thought I told you not to run yourself ragged. Oh, you poor thing, your eyes are all red…”

“I meant to sleep,” Sély protests, feebly. “It just wouldn’t happen. But I can’t go lying down now; I’ve just gotten my hair finished.”

“If it gets mussed, I can fix it for you. You wouldn’t want to be tired when everyone arrives?”

“Too late,” Sély tries to joke. Tataru does not smile. “I promise I’ll be all right. Don’t worry about my eyes. I just need to bathe with a bit of cold water, and they’ll be right as rain.” 

“Hm…”

“Please,” Sély says, hating the waver in her voice. “Please don’t make me nap—I’m too worked up—I’d never get a wink of sleep. I just need to get through this, and then I swear to you I shall go straight to bed tonight. Please?”

Tataru’s serious expression remains fixed for a second or two longer… then softens. “Very well. Go bathe your eyes, then, and I’ll check in on the brides. But I’m going to hold you to that promise– you see if I don’t.”

“I know.” Sély stands up and starts toward the bathroom. Then she turns back. “Don’t mention this to them, will you? I don’t think Livorette has noticed. And Gogoha’s nervous enough as it is.”

“…Very well,” Tataru repeats. She hops to the floor and slips her shoes back on as Sély leaves the room.


	2. Unmingled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nerves mount still higher.

The cold water soothes the redness from Sély’s eyes just as well as she had hoped. Somehow more coffee has been fetched and brewed by the time she emerges from the washroom, though she is sure she did not linger overlong; no doubt this is Tataru’s hand at work. The Scions’ receptionist knows all too well the need for energy to propel one through a long spate of activity. She pours herself a generous half-mugful, takes a sip and very nearly spits it out—this is a truly bitter brew. And here she’d been so proud of herself for learning to drink the stuff unaltered. Ah well. If she cannot have cream and sugar on her sister’s wedding day, when can she have them? She pours and stirs until the bitterness is suitably mitigated.

Speaking of her sister, Livorette appears to be catching some of Gogoha’s nerves despite everyone’s best efforts—including Livy’s own. As the coffee appeared for Sély, so too is the carline tea soon brewed, and she tries to ensure a tall cup of it is never far from her sister’s hand. The effectiveness is difficult to gauge, but every little bit must help.

There is still so much to do, even dividing the work between herself and Tataru. Sély cannot bear to sit or stand in one place for too long. She checks and double-checks everything over. The décor is holding nicely, the orchestrion in fine working order, and the white destrier upon which the brides are to ride away at the end of the ceremony arrives in good time and fine spirits. “He’s an old hand at this,” one of the bird’s grooms assures her. “Good as gold. You haven’t a thing to worry about with our Cloudmallow.”

And then it is quarter past three, and Sély has to set out for Sweetbloom Pier to catch her father at the four o’clock ferry. She is well in time, teleporting to the Hawthorne Hut and successfully resisting the urge to dragoon-jump the rest of the way from there. (She cannot, she tells herself firmly, risk catching her hair on twigs or branches. She _cannot_. Efficiency must yield to vanity just this once.) The day is warm, the sunlight strong even through the Twelveswood’s canopy; it was a good idea to leave her travel clothes on for this.

-Ah, here he is now, stepping off the ferry, his blonde head gleaming faintly even in the shade. She hurries forward, calling, “Papa! Over here!”

“Sély,” he answers warmly, striding up to embrace her. “Hello, dear. How is everything?”

“Better, now.” They fall into brisk step, making for the Hawthorne Hut once more. “Did you have much trouble getting away?”

“Not too much. I told your mother I was overdue for a garden-supply excursion.” Papa’s eyes twinkle. “We are woefully low on pomace.”

He rattles on awhile in that vein- it seems the plans for the medicinal addition to the garden are proceeding rather well. Indeed, he had hoped to add a touch of veracity to his alibi by leaving in his gardening attire and changing into a more fitting outfit on arrival to the city, but Mama forbade him to set foot out of the front door in such shabby togs.

“Thus: all this,” he finishes, using his free hand to indicate his ensemble: a bliaud and gaskins in ink-blue dyed linen, with white linen gaiters below. “It seemed a good balance to strike between being fine enough for her tastes and plain enough not to let her know where I was really going. I’ve got my gloves in here,” touching his breast pocket. “Though I do feel a touch overdressed at the moment, I must say.”

“You look wonderful,” Sély tells him. “You look exactly right. I’m the one who’s underdressed- but I’ve got my gray wool back at the Sanctum, so I won’t be for long.”

When they return, Tataru is upon them almost immediately. Apparently Livorette is now perilously close to panicking, and no amount of tea will soothe her. 

“What’s wrong?” Sély asks, worried. 

“Twelve help me if I know,” Tataru answers over her shoulder, leading them to the dressing room door. “Maybe you two can find out. Livorette,” she calls, rapping at the doorjamb. “Your sister’s back, with Monsieur Farouche.” 

The door flies open to reveal a jittery Livy, who falls on her father’s neck with a muffled “Oh, Papa!” 

“There now, dear, what’s the matter?” Papa says, rubbing her shoulders.

Livy clings to him a moment longer, then pulls back to look at him with a watery smile. “I’m so glad to see you! I was worried you hadn’t been able to get past Mama—I know you promised you’d come but, well… things happen… Oh, it doesn’t matter, I’m just glad you’re here,” and she hugs him tight once more.

Crisis averted. Sély turns to Tataru. “Right. Any word on Gogo’s people?”

Tataru doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll find out. But you need to finish getting dressed. You don’t want to be caught on the back foot when the guests start arriving.”

“Too true.” Sély collects her gown et al and makes another trip to the washroom.

Tataru’s advice comes not a moment too soon. Sély has scarcely been dressed for a quarter bell before conversation begins to drift in from the Sanctum’s front steps. She feels a little wave of nerves wash up over the back of her tongue. It tastes of leftover sugar and cream. Ugh.

_Never mind it now._ She swallows it back and goes to check on the brides again.

Gogoha sits at her vanity in a stunning black silk wedding gown, all bedecked with lacy gray embroidery. She’s even contrived to have black roses in the wreath from which her veil descends. Her face, however, is set in an expression Sély knows well—the one she wears when she’s using every onze of willpower to hold herself together. At Sély’s approach, the little white head turns. “Are they here yet?”

“Some folks have arrived,” Sély answers, keeping her voice light. “I’m not certain which ones exactly, but they’re out on the steps. They won’t be coming in for another half-bell.”

Gogoha nods, the tiniest motion. “Ah. I see.” A pause. “Do they have to come in?”

Sélysette blinks. “I… eventually? I mean, we could always bar the doors, but it would be rather difficult to explain to everyone.”

“No, no…” Gogoha sighs and lets her chin sink into her hands. “It’s not that. I just. Er.”

Sély waits, hoping fervently that this isn’t about to turn into a fiasco right before her eyes. It can’t be that Gogoha the fierce, Gogoha the bold- _she_ can’t be getting cold feet. “Is there something I can do?” Sély asks, carefully.

A deep breath. “Not… not really. I can get through this. I’m just… going to walk in there… and hear her say all those lovely, lovely things in front of that moogle and the Twelve and everyone… but I won’t hear the Twelve reacting in the moment, only everyone else…” In the mirror, Sély sees Gogoha’s left eye twitch.

“It’s all right,” Gogo adds, in the following silence. “I swear. It’s fine. Don’t worry about me. I’ll have Liv right next to me the whole time… It’ll be all right.”

Sély cannot really argue with this. But all the same, she slips next door and drops a quiet word in Livorette’s ear.

When the guests are permitted to enter the antechamber, requests to speak in hushed tones quickly become impossible to enforce. The voices simply rise by gradual, inexorable degrees. Then, too, the sheer number of people present means that the room is quickly filled near to bursting; it appears that all twoscore and twelve of the invitations were answered in the positive. Sélysette and Tataru move among them, welcoming, thanking, mingling and managing with all their might. Well, mostly Tataru’s might. Sély shall never be able to thank her enough.

And Claribel- forget not Claribel, whose patient experience is an utter godssend. She expertly ushers everyone into the Sanctum in something like an orderly fashion, and points them unerringly toward their seats. Papa waits until the bulk of the crowd has passed before coming forward to take his youngest’s arm. 

“Good heavens, what a crush,” he observes, as Sély escorts him to his place beside her own, in the very front row. “I think something like half of Eorzea must be here.”

“This is the short list, Papa,” Sély reminds him. “It could have been far worse.”

Papa blinks. “Good heavens,” he repeats, and seems lost for any more words just at present.

Sély excuses herself and darts back to the antechamber once more. “Are they ready?” she whispers to Tataru. 

“Nearly,” Tataru murmurs. They both glance toward the dressing room doors, which remain closed for several long, worrisome seconds. Just as Sély is bracing herself to go and knock, both doors swing open, and both brides step through. 

Livorette’s yukata and quan gleam softly in the sconce-light; her gold-sandaled feet are steady on the ground, and she meets Sély’s questioning gaze with a bracing sort of smile. Gogoha stands beside her betrothed with a spine straight as a steel rod, the floral burst of her bouquet neatly hiding both hands. Her face is… not quite relaxed, but neither is it so stiff or grim as it was when Sély saw it last. With an exchange of glances, the pair of them come forward together. 

Tataru gives them a quick once-over. Satisfied that neither has a hair out of place, she favors them with her brightest smile. “Let’s go, ladies! Your union awaits!”


	3. Twelve and Everyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we shift points of view- to Gogoha, as she faces down the last hurdle to beginning her married life... the ceremony.

She can do this.

Of course she can. Gogoha’s fingers tighten on her bouquet; she tries to take slow, deliberate, deep breaths as she and Livorette follow Tataru out of the antechamber, into the foyer and toward the Sanctum’s main hall.

Aside from the gentle hiss of the fountains flowing into the deep pools on either side of the path, it’s a silent journey for the three of them. Gogoha finds that maintaining forward momentum is quite hard enough, let alone pulling a complete sentence out of the rising tide of chaos that is her brain. _The lights will be low_ , she reminds herself. _Just watch where you’re going and you’ll be fine._

“Here we are,” Tataru says, and Gogoha blinks hard. Somehow the huge, heavy doors are already before them. A rippling murmur of many voices can be heard from the other side. “I’ll linkpearl Sély to get things started. Don’t forget, stay right on this spot til the doors are all the way open—”

“Yes,” Livorette answers. Her voice sounds odd, but Gogo can’t quite place why. “We’ll remember.”

Tataru steps briskly over to what seems to be merely another section of wall. Under her hands it swings back to reveal a smaller door, leading to a discreet passage between the foyer and the hall proper. She gives them both one last excited smile before she disappears within; Gogoha wishes she could do the same.

“Hey,” Livorette says, still in that odd voice. “You know we’re about to give every naysayer on this star the biggest up-yours ever, right?”

A snort of laughter bursts out before Gogo can stop it. “Right. Feels pretty good.”

“Good. Hang on to that.”

Beyond the hall doors, there is a sudden drop in the noise level—probably signaling that the lights have gone down. Then a single, higher-pitched voice rings out. “Ladies and gentlemen… and any others who may not fall into said categories!”

_This is it_. Gogo’s pulse sounds like an army marching through her ears, drowning out the rest of the short opening speech. Then the music starts… and the great doors begin to move.

_Breathe._

The music washes over her head, all soft strings and glimmering chimes. With the scattered lamps and sconces lit so low, the guests are reduced to shadowy silhouettes peering over the backs of their pews. It seems to Gogoha as if the whole room has taken a step back somehow—leaving only the gently spotlit center aisle, a dazzling white-carpeted bridge to the far side of the chamber for herself and her love alone. She glances up with a shaky smile, which Liv returns. Here they go.

Once they have started, every step seems easier than the one before. Gogoha finds her gaze straying from its hitherto rigid focus on the goal ahead. 

The setting sun tints the tops of the Sanctum’s massive windows pink above the symbols of the Twelve, as though to match the swags of drapery and sprays of flowers within. The lights are softened and distorted in their reflections, as if seen through water or mist. For one moment Gogo wonders if she can track her own image in the glass, but no—the windows do not reach quite that far down, and besides, the pews and their occupants would block the way in any case. Fellow adventurers, Scions, friends… So many eyes upon her. So many eyes upon them both.

_No_ , _don’t think of that_. She looks ahead once more.

Halfway there now. The choir moogle who will be conducting the ceremony hovers above the altar, tiny wings beating the air. Claribel stands some fulms off to the right, with a blandly encouraging expression on her face- at least it looks encouraging to Gogo. _Eyes front. Eyes_ front.

“Steady on, old girl,” comes a murmur from somewhere to the left, followed swiftly by a stifled _“ow!”_ Ah yes, the youngest Fortemps. Naturally. Gogoha’s stomach shows its contempt for this untimely remark with a decided wobble, but she keeps moving. Thankfully, they complete the procession without further commentary.

So far, so good. Gogoha inhales as she deposits her bouquet on the floor beside her feet, counting silently to five… hold for two… exhale for another five. So far. So good.

Unfortunately, the moogle’s voice is exactly as grating today as it was the day before. Gogoha lets its words fade out, focusing on her breathing. Despite her best efforts, the phrase “exchange of vows” cuts through her concentration. But it’s all right. They’ve rehearsed for this. Yes.

And the moogle has stopped speaking. And Liv is clearing her throat.

They turn to face each other.

“Gogo,” Liv begins- her voice sounds odder than ever, but her eyes are two deep blue-gray wells of joy. “Gogoha. From the moment I met you, you caught me in more ways than one—and you’ve been doing it ever since.” She swallows. “And I know when you proposed, you said you didn’t have anything to give me… but that wasn’t actually true. Because you had—and you have—plenty. More than I could ever have dreamed of.”

Gods, look at her, look at her now, her cheeks flushed nearly as pink as her hair, that eternal lilybell pin faintly trembling above her ear. _No, it’s not shaking. She is. Oh, Liv…_

Liv swallows again. “And so. Er. I am going to pledge those things back to you, today.” There is a brief pause, in which the lilybells tremble harder. _You can do it,_ Gogoha wills her. _You must._

Liv takes a deep breath, and recites:

“I give you my arm, against what woes betide you.  
I give you my back, against wind, cold, and rain.  
I give you my legs, to walk always beside you.  
I give you my physick, to heal you from pain.  
I give you my promise, this day, to provide you  
A keen ear to listen – a shelter from strife –  
A good steady hand, and the whole of my heart…”

Her voice cracks on the word “heart;” she sinks to one knee, placing a hand on her chest.

“All these I will give, as your true- wedded… wife.”

Liv squeezes her eyes shut on the last word, bowing her head just slightly. A tear or two struggles out from between her lashes. She is not the only one affected in this way; several sniffles are heard, scattered throughout the shadowed pews. Even if the lights had been up, though, Gogo would not care to look. Let them have their moments. She herself is too busy being overcome with relief, pride, and the urgent wish that they were alone so she could just launch herself forward and kiss every tear away from her Liv’s face…

At this point it becomes clear that the moogle, despite previous discussions, is expecting some sort of response from Gogo. She does not take her eyes from Livorette’s. She simply makes an impatient gesture with her left hand, where the guests won’t see, and speaks in a voice only they three can hear: “I match that pledge, Livorette. Now and forever. I swear it before you and all the gods.”

A few more seconds of expectant silence ensue, but Gogo speaks no further; that will just have to do. With a slightly irritated shake of its pom, the moogle concedes the point and carries on.

“If our lovely couple would be so kind as to approach the dais for the ring exchange…”

In rehearsal, they’d sort of glossed over this bit with a “yes, and then the Sanctum’s magic will whisk the rings right onto your fingers;” apparently the spell only works on the day, at the appointed bell. Now, indeed, two iridescent circles of light appear in the air above the altar table. As Gogoha watches, one of them floats toward Livorette’s hands and comes to a stop over her upturned palms. Gogo holds out her left hand, palm down, and watches the shimmering spot settle into solid form where it belongs. It’s a weird sensation, a crackling coolness that reminds her of sage and mint somehow, and it only intensifies when she guides the remaining light-circle toward Liv.

A round of soft applause greets their upraised, newly adorned hands.

Now for the second-to-last part. No speeches this time. Only action. Gogoha and her bride face each other once more, as the choir moogle twirls in the air and stretches out its pinpoint paws. More magic light appears, this time in the form of crystalline wings that seem to spring from both of their shoulders (spreading the mint-and-sage crackle to Gogo’s back, just as it had almost faded from her ring finger). This, too, was glossed over in the rehearsal…

_They swore we wouldn’t fall. They had better have been telling the truth._

Gogoha locks her eyes on Livorette’s, wishing their gazes could braid together like an anchor rope, like a lifeline. Something to hold on to as their feet rise from the floor and their heads come level with each other. If she concentrates, she almost feels as if nothing has moved, as though the ceiling has simply lowered itself to a mere yalm or two above them. _Heh. This isn’t so bad._ She doesn’t even think of glancing down.

And Livorette is smiling, all trace of tears gone now, and the magic wings carry them toward each other—

And Gogoha kisses her wife.

Right in front of the Twelve and everyone.

She doesn’t even feel it when they touch back down.


	4. Sweetest Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Livorette is just a touch theatrical in expressing her happiness, and Gogoha finds that wedding nights are far, far better than weddings.

Gogoha takes several seconds too long to realize that she is not touching ground at all. Instead, she finds herself seated in the most exquisite of chairs, consisting of two long arms upholstered in finely embroidered indigo sleeves: Livorette has neatly caught her in the midst of their descent. Which also means she is in the perfect position to look dazedly into her wife’s ( _my wife’s!_ ) softly smiling face.

“Hi,” Livorette murmurs.

“H… hi,” Gogoha manages to reply.

Then Sélysette and Monsieur Farouche are there, clasping both brides from either side; next moment, Liv kneels to deliver Gogo into the embrace of her own mother and father, who clutch their daughter tight before pulling their new daughter-in-law down for her share of parental affection. Next a small staircase is whisked in from somewhere, allowing Gogoha’s ascent to the altar table that she might be of a height to receive further congratulatory gestures. The Fortemps family, including the younger one’s manservant, each bow over her hand and Livorette’s in turn. So too do Francel and Laniaitte de Haillenarte, whom Gogo only recognizes by Liv’s greeting. 

Alisaie contrives to be first of the Scions to reach the newlyweds, but then seems to run out of initiative when they turn to face her; only when Liv reaches out does she allow herself to be pulled into a one-armed hug. Urianger offers a bow so deep that Gogo fears he might fall over, while Y’shtola favors them both with her warmest smile. From that point everything seems to blur together- all smiles and handshakes and countless variations on the theme- until the blessed sound of a ringing bell signals the well-wishers to fall back. Somehow Claribel has rescued the bouquet; she hands it back to Gogoha and retreats with smooth efficiency as the recessional music begins. Applause and cheers fall like rain as the brides retrace their steps.

The Sanctum doors swing open ahead of them, first to the foyer, then to the veranda. Cool breezes swirl into Gogo’s face, lifting her veil out behind her. She tallies each new detail of the approaching view. The yellow glow of lamps along the stone walkway. The massive white chocobo waiting on the landing with its handlers, its feathers gleaming. A glimpse of sky through the trees, its rosy blush giving way to purple dusk. 

“Nearly there,” Liv murmurs, her voice aglow with anticipation.

“Nearly,” Gogo repeats. She feels the sudden desire to throw decorum to the winds and simply run full-tilt ahead. If only these lovely silk skirts weren’t quite so long. If only there were an aethernet link directly to their rooms…

At which point Liv glances down with a most mischievous glint in her eye. “You know… I am strongly tempted to simply scoop you up and carry you off.”

“And I’m strongly tempted to let you.”

“Is that a hint, wife of mine?”

_Anything to be alone with you at last._ Gogo bites her lip. “…Yes it is.”

Liv’s face lights with a wild grin. “As my lilybell commands.”

She sweeps Gogoha off the ground and into her arms, spins around, and then sets off as if voidsent are nipping at her heels. Her long legs eat up the remaining distance in the twinkling of an eye, making the waiting chocobo flap and shuffle in place with a startled _kweh_.

“Have a care, miss,” scolds one of the handlers. “If this had been anyone but our Cloudmallow, you might have had a kick to the chest that’d tear you up but good.”

“Beg pardon,” Liv pants, breathless but still grinning. “Bit carried away.” She backs up a pace or two to let the bird settle back down until the handlers indicate it is safe to approach. Then she lifts Gogo into the saddle with great care, swings up behind her with a flourish of leg, and… there they sit.

Gogoha’s confusion is quickly followed by suspicion. She cranes around to look behind her. “Livorette. Light of my life. Dhalmel of my heart. Why, pray tell, are we not leaving?”

“Have patience but a moment or two longer,” Liv answers. “Our guests deserve the full effect of our grand exit. Also, my darling, are you terribly attached to this bouquet?”

Gogo frowns. “I’m not, but…”

“Excellent.” In the next minute, the more energetic attendees join them on the landing.

“Friends!” Liv calls to them. “Family! Assorted fine folk! We love you all dearly, but we cannot stay—any longer tonight, that is,” she adds over the subsequent noises of protest. “The ceremony is done, we’re well and truly wed, and so we bid you all good night til it be morrow!”

So saying, she plucks the bouquet from Gogo’s hand and hurls it overhead into the throng. There is, naturally, an immediate scramble over it. Livorette laughs loud and long from her chest, slaps her thigh, and off they ride into the deepening night, the first night of summer… and of the rest of their lives.

* * *

The wedding chocobo proves as good as his handler’s word. He carries his passengers swiftly and smoothly out of the Sanctum’s grand gates, straight through the East Shroud, and back to the ferry dock in what seems a matter of moments. Liv swings down from the saddle and helps Gogoha to alight, then consigns the bird to the care of a nearby Twin Adder soldier. 

By mutual impulse, they teleport straight to the aetheryte plaza mere moments after stepping off the boat. Side by side they walk down the slope to the Roost, and thence back to the bridal suite. In their absence it has been made all spic-and-span, festooned with flowers and draped in white. Sély’s things have been removed; she is to join their father in his rooms for tonight, Gogoha remembers her— _sister-in-law_ , now—saying the day before. They will have all the privacy they might desire.

But is it private, really, if everyone knows what they’re up to…?

_Nope. No. None of that_ , Gogoha scolds herself. Thankfully she is not given further time to get tangled up in her thoughts; Livorette stops only to turn on the hall light before scooping Gogo into her arms once more and kissing her soundly.

They proceed all the way to the bedroom like that, scarcely breathing between kisses. Liv is obliged to open the door with her elbow, and kick it shut after them. When they reach the bed she breaks off to whisper, “Brace yourself,” before dropping to sit on the petal-strewn covers.

Things might have gone on in that same headlong vein, except that the brides soon realize they have no idea how to safely remove Gogoha from her wedding dress. While the silver brooch at the neck proves easy enough to undo, there is not so much as a telltale seam below that point. Both Livorette and Gogo are thoroughly puzzled until a chance fumble reveals hidden hook-and-eye clasps amid the lace at the back of the neck, leading to a subsequent line of minuscule black-silk-clad buttons that run from mid-shoulder down to the small of Gogo’s back. For a further complication, they lie near flush against the gown.

“I must say,” Livorette murmurs, fidgeting open each button in turn, “I deeply regret not having been in the room when you were being helped into this thing.”

“Tataru did insist it was the simplest operation on earth.” Gogoha rolls her eyes.

“That’s because Tataru is a seamstress to be reckoned with- _there_ we go,” Liv interrupts herself, with satisfaction. “Tricky bastard, that one. Two more to go—there, and… _there._ All complete. And we didn’t even have to cut you out of it.”

Gogoha exhales a laugh as she slips her arms out of the sleeves, one at a time. “We wouldn’t have. Not if we wanted to live to see our honeymoon.”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Liv muses. She traces a cool hand up Gogoha’s newly bare back, making her shiver. “It might have been worth it. I can think of far worse ways to die.”

With the bodice thus loosened, Gogo hides her burning face by slipping to the floor and lifting the dress off over her head. She wishes it were as cool inside as it is outside. There is a _lot_ of skirt, with far too warm a lining. When she emerges, Liv emits the softest of gasps.

“What?” Gogo looks herself over. Strapless camise, short lacy underskirt, tall snow-white stockings with pale blue ribbons round the tops, and matching snow-white boots with tiny blue bows at the heels. “It’s nothing I haven’t been wearing all afternoon.”

Livorette swallows hard. “Have I mentioned I deeply regret not being in the room when you first put this on? Because I do. Truly, truly I do.”

Gogoha’s face flames hotter than ever. “I’m sure,” she mutters. Then, more firmly- “Now if you’re quite done regretting, it looks to me like you’re overdressed.”

Instantly Liv stands up, steps out of her sandals, and slips the quan off her hips, allowing it to crumple round her feet. “Better?” she inquires, breathless.

A half-smile twists up one side of Gogoha’s mouth, though her cheeks still burn. “There’s still room for improvement.”

Before she has half finished speaking, Liv reaches back and tugs her long sash loose. Well, looser. Several subsequent tugs are necessary to undo it completely, whereupon it flutters to the floor like a cut banner. Its erstwhile wearer follows, sinking to one knee as the yukata falls open around her. “And how now, my love?”

_How now_ indeed. Livorette’s skin looks more golden than ever against the yukata’s vivid indigo dye; her camise is revealed to be naught but a network of lace, woven in a pattern of- yes- tiny butterflies, each one no bigger than Gogoha’s thumbnail. Her smalls are as yet hidden, but Gogoha will not be surprised if they match. The wedding band sparkles on her finger as she presses her left hand to her heart, just as she had done in the ceremony—Gogoha finds her breath catching in her throat.

“That,” she starts, only for her voice to skew high and crack. “That’s better, yeah.”

Liv bows low over her raised knee, sweeping her other hand out to the side. Looking up, she breathes: “I am, may I say, at your service. Now and forever.”

At which point Gogoha’s last shred of reserve dies, and she lunges forward to claim her wife’s lips with her own.

* * *

Later. Gogoha is roused from her doze by the light touch of fingers on her shoulder blade, lovingly tracing the lines of her back under the covers.

“Ah,” Livorette whispers when Gogo rolls over to face her, eyes still heavy with sleep. “She wakes. Joy of my heart, she wakes.” 

The lamps are off, and the fire is banked down to embers. Moonlight glows through the high windows over the head of their bed, dappling the ceiling with soft silhouettes of the foliage just outside. And Gogoha is too happily tired to be flustered at… whatever time this is.

“Have you slept at all?” she whispers back.

Liv gives her a little smile. “It would take an enchantment to make me close my eyes, when I share a flowery bed for the first time with my wife. To whom-” she catches a yawn behind her teeth- “I have just been married…”

Gogoha scoots forward and kisses her as firmly as her drowse will allow. “Is that enchantment enough for you?” 

“I…” Liv blinks slowly in the dark. “Yes.” 

“Good.” She kisses her again, lingering this time. “Now close your eyes, my sweetest fool, and wake not til dawn hath well risen.”

Only when Livorette has followed the first part of this command does Gogoha do the same. She thinks she hears Liv whisper something, but it is lost as she drifts off once more.


	5. Oldroses and Optics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we alternate points of view between Sély and Livy as the Great Wedding Reception unfolds...
> 
> Again, the utmost thanks are due to Eremiss for beta reading, and to Vreliskriri for additional commentary!

* * *

_Well really,_ Sélysette thinks, squinting at her watch in the moonlight. _This is just unfair._

She’d helped lead the whole herd of guests back to the pier and seen them ferried across, lot by lot- that had been easier than it sounded, to her surprise. She’d gone over with Papa in the last ferry-load, and they’d had a nice dinner together. Room service, in fact, since it made for a quicker turnaround to bed afterward, and she had a promise to keep. And now here she is at two in the sodding morning, jolted awake by a dream of all things.

Absolutely unfair. After she’d made such a point of going to sleep. She knows for certain she hasn’t missed any of the arrangements, and she’s not due for a check-in on same til seven or so—why should she be having anxiety dreams? Is the Warden taking her title a little too seriously…?

Sély takes the watch and slips out of bed, careful not to wake Papa as he slumbers across the room. Her mouth is dry and her breath tastes frankly awful. _Nothing a bit of water and mint won’t cure_ , she tells herself. _And then it is straight back to bed with you, girl. It was only a dream._

A very odd dream, though. Not like her usual ones. There had been darkness, scattered with faint pinpricks of light like distant stars. She’d been trying to find the end of the dark—without success, of course. And all the time a voice had been shouting at her, alternately ordering and begging… She can’t remember what it was actually saying. She’s not sure she understood at the time, either. A strange fizzle of– fear? –unease runs through her at the memory.

She makes for the bathroom, pondering. Maybe she really has forgotten something after all. Something small. Something that isn’t the place settings, or the seating arrangements, or the décor. Certainly not the cake or the buffet menu. Something very small indeed…

Only when she is standing over the bathroom sink, chewing away at her mint, does she realize what she could possibly have missed. “Gimft!” she exclaims through her mouthful of leaves. In the next few seconds she goes through several thoughts, rapid-fire:

_I forgot my gift-_

_No I didn’t; I ordered it weeks ago-_

_And it came to the Stones, just like it was supposed to, all engraved properly and everything-_

_And I packed it, yes-_

_But where did I- my bag- where is it—?!_

She finishes chewing the mint, spits it into the waste bin and rinses out her mouth in record time. The instant she’s finished, she tiptoes as fast as she can back to the bedroom to fetch her bag from the floor at the end of her bed and carries it out to the living room. She pulls the chain of the standing lamp and hefts the bag onto the couch to go through it piece by piece.

Several frantic minutes later, she turns up the gift at last, wedged into the very bottom of her otherwise careful packing. Gods know what she was thinking to put it so far down—probably had some vague idea about keeping it quite secret til the appropriate time. But here it is, wrapped neat in a drawstring pouch of gray suede. Just to settle all doubt, she opens the top and lets the contents slide into her hand.

Yes, here it is: a fine cobalt steel flask, made to hold a whopping sixteen onzes of liquid, engraved on both sides. On the outer side, a cluster of carline and lilybell blossoms, below which are her sister’s initials in curling script; on the inner side, a message. _To my Dear Sister, with Best Wishes Upon Her Marriage – S. C. F._ All is present and correct; the cap works well, and the engraving is sharp. She allows herself a quiet sigh of relief.

Returning the flask to its wrapping and setting it aside, she repacks her things with customary precision. She can almost feel herself relaxing as each item is returned to its place. Once she's finished the job, she takes the bag over one shoulder and the prized pouch in the other hand, turns off the lamp and returns to the bedroom. This time her gift joins her watch on the bedside table. 

When she goes back to sleep, she does not dream.

* * *

Morning sunlight gently dances over Livorette’s eyelids as she drifts up out of sleep, cradled in the bed’s soft embrace. There’s a familiar weight beside her, and as she comes further awake Livy realizes there’s a sound as well: a quiet, tuneless humming.

“Mmh,” she mumbles happily, eyes still shut, stretching her legs down into the covers. “Flights of angels sing me from my rest.” At her words, the humming abruptly cuts off. “Ah drat, I’ve scared them away.”

“She wakes,” Gogo mutters, doubtless blushing to the roots of her hair.

“I do,” Livy grins, snaking an arm out to capture her beloved’s waist as she makes to scoot away. “Oh, pray don’t flee; I could be persuaded that I dreamt the angelic chorus.”

She nuzzles into the curve of Gogo’s hip, glorying in the sweet scent of lingering perfume on her skin, then nudges up the lower edge of her smalls and plants a kiss there. This elicits such a delightful squeak that Livy can hardly be blamed for following up with a second kiss. And a third. And a fourth. “Mmm,” she purrs. “Delicious.”

Gogo makes a noise of mortified pleasure. “I am _not_ -”

“But you are! Powdered sugar- candied violets- a very feast of sweetmeats, that’s you.” Livy punctuates her phrases with kiss after kiss, making a path of them right up her love’s side. “ _Entirely_ delicious- _eminently_ edible-”

“Stoooop,” Gogoha begs, her face nearly glowing with the force of her blush as she hides behind her hands.

“Stop kissing you? Or stop talking?”

Amid Gogo’s answering sputters, the shrill ring of Livy’s linkpearl cuts off further attempts at blush inducement. “Hello?”

“Ah, you’re awake,” Tataru replies. “Excellent. Your sister was about to have a coronary, but I assured her you’d be up in time. It wouldn’t do for the pair of you to miss your own reception, after all. I trust you have your outfits ready, if not actually on? Good. Then we’ll see you both in a bell or so.” She hangs up before Livy can manage so much as half a word of reply.

“Did she say we’ve got a bell before they expect us?” Gogo inquires, lowering her hands. “Dibs on the shower.”

Gogo is much the swifter bather; Livy has no problem letting her go on ahead. She spends the time retrieving her currant-purple suit and gaiters from the armoire, her white oldrose hairpin from the even whiter breast pocket of the suit’s dress shirt, and the little case of perfumes (Lyse’s gift) from the vanity. From the latter, she soon identifies the jessamine scent as the one she detected earlier. She sets it aside; perhaps Gogoha will wish to re-apply it today. In the meantime, there are three left to choose from… should she wear a scent herself? Or will it clash?

Bah, never mind; here’s Gogo coming now, utterly enchanting already in her new lavender-trimmed spring gown, the treasured black oldrose pin set in her hair. Livorette takes her suit and darts into the bathroom.

* * *

The Carline Canopy has a _ballroom_ , and Livorette still cannot believe she never knew about it.

Well, it’s really more of a large hall. Still, there is plenty of space for the dining tables at one end and dancing at the other, so what does that make this room if not a ballroom? And it is lovely, truly—like the rest of the building, with its warm wood paneling and green stained-glass windows. The late morning light turns the latter to brilliant panes of peridot and emerald as the strains of an orchestrion merrily waft into the rafters. There are potted, blooming carline bushes positively _everywhere_ , while rose garlands adorn the walls and little vases of lilybells grace the tables. As they make their way up to their seats at the head table, Livy wonders aloud whether this is what the Heaven of Flowers might be like.

“There isn’t a Heaven of Flowers,” Sélysette says.

To which Livy and her father simultaneously reply, “Well, there should be,” making them both laugh. Papa’s low chuckle is offset by Livy’s uncharacteristic bubbling peal- followed by a second, laughing at the first. Oh gods, marriage has gone straight to her head.

“Perhaps the flowers grow amid the roots of the great tree of the Heaven of Earth,” Papa suggests. “It wouldn’t be a heaven otherwise, would it?”

“Mayhap not,” Sélysette concedes. “Now, they’ve put place cards here for everyone- and we’ve taken care to shore up the seat cushions as necessary…”

The brides are to sit dead center, naturally, as reigning queens of the day: Gogo on the left and Livy on the right. Then Mama and Papa Goha (as Livy has privately dubbed them) will sit on Gogo’s left, while Sély and Papa Farouche will sit to Livy’s right. The Scions will sit in pairs beside the brides’ parents, followed by the similarly paired Fortemps gentlemen. It really is quite cleverly done, and Livy makes a point to tell her sister so.

Sély blushes prettily at the compliment. “You must be sure and thank Tataru as well—she’ll be along any moment. In the meantime, you can sit or stroll as you please; I’ve got a few more things to check up on before people start arriving.”

She bustles off, black-ribboned hem rustling.

“Let’s walk,” says Gogoha almost at once, clearly intent upon spending as little time as possible in this central position. “Maybe there’s a closet somewhere nearby where we can hide.”

Livy badly wants to make a saucy joke in response, but Papa is right there. She contents herself with a meaningful eye-twinkle instead, saying only, “Then walk we shall. Papa, care to come along?” she adds, abruptly realizing that she ought not strand her father alone at the table.

But he shakes his head. “Far be it from me to intrude. I’ll keep the seat warm, shall I, and act as a sort of signal flag planted up here.”

This statement does not quite reassure. However, Sély now returns with Scions in tow: Urianger, Y’shtola, Alisaie and Tataru, all duly spruced up for the occasion.

“Your face!” Livorette blurts, before she can stop herself—for neither Urianger’s customary hood nor his goggles are anywhere in evidence.

“Pray do not stare,” he mumbles, eyes on the floor.

“No no- I mean-” She scans him up and down. He’s still wearing a robe, as always, but a fancier one with an elbow-length cape that is divided into several embroidered panels—Livy could swear she’s seen something like it before. Beneath it, she spies dark pants and boots; the latter even sport embroidered cuffs that match the panels of the cape. But his face- it’s been so long since she’s seen it like this. “You look good,” she declares. “That’s what I mean.”

“Yes, it’s quite the change, isn’t it,” Tataru beams. “We had a deal: ordinary attire for the wedding, special for today. I didn’t quite have time to whip up a whole new outfit, but we made do rather nicely, no?”

“And she’s promised him a proper Tataru original in due course,” Alisaie puts in, “to match with the rest of us.”

At this point Gogoha comes forward and peers up into Urianger’s downcast eyes. “Tell you what, Urianger. You can come walking with us, and we’ll camp out somewhere til it’s time for the food.”

* * *

Sélysette is grateful that most of the guests seem to find their places fairly easily as she hurries hither and yon among them, pointing them all on their ways. The Fortempses and Gogoha’s parents (Chuchubaji and Kekera, Sély reminds herself) appear within minutes of each other; they fall right into conversation with Papa and Y’shtola when they reach their seats, as though they were all the best of friends already. Thank the Twelve for that.

To spare Gogoha’s blushes, there are no speeches this day; there is only food and drink and music, and everyone having their various ideas of a pleasant time. True, Alisaie insists on patrolling the edges of the room, but Sély has been given to understand that this is how Alisaie prefers to spend a significant portion of most parties. Urianger (having gradually reconciled himself to his bare face) is deep in discussion with Monsieur Chuchubaji, who as it transpires is rather a fan of poetry. Meanwhile, Madame Kekera happily talks business with Tataru as Y’shtola listens on.

Livorette is absolutely floating, as is apparent to even the most casual of observers. She cuts a splendid figure in her currant-purple ensemble, with the white oldrose hairpin jaunty in her buttonhole, and her smile is fair fit to crack her face in two. She has hardly stopped dancing for the past half bell—mostly with her wife, of course, who seems determined to match her step for improvised step or die in the attempt. The sole exception to this athletic endeavor was the single dance each of them shared with Ser Lucia, who informed them that she had been solemnly charged to do so on Ser Aymeric’s behalf. Sélysette had not known Lucia could dance, let alone look so very graceful and dignified in the performance. Then again, as a former spy, perhaps it was part of her training. She is now patrolling with Alisaie, silver dress and all.

Given the general effort toward discretion for this event, most of the city-state leaders have followed Aymeric’s example by sending a representative of some sort in their place. Lucia came accompanied by Estinien, to Sély’s immense surprise; the man looks rather ill at ease in his ash-gray suit. Still he is here, and has proved to possess quite the penchant for spraying Realm Reborn Red over everyone’s heads. He wears a somewhat savage grin every time- oh gods, there it is again. Sély hurries across the room to intervene.

“What’s the matter?” he inquires as she approaches. “Is there a garland loose somewhere nearby, threatening to brain me?”

Sély gives him an eloquent raised brow over her company smile. “There might be, if your hand strays any further toward that wine. For gods’ sake, Estinien, people aren’t here to get _sticky._ ”

“They’re going to be sticky in any case,” he shoots back. “It is a wedding reception, and summer at that. _For gods’ sake_ ,” he echoes, “you’re wearing _wool_. One would think you’d be grateful for a bit of precipitation.”

She sighs. “Estinien Wyrmblood, you are a menace.”

He looks far too pleased at that remark. Almost ferally so. She sighs again.

“Very well, very well.” He shakes his head. “No more indoor showers. On my word as a menace temporarily reformed.”

That was entirely too easy, but Sélysette has many other fish to fry. “Marvelous. Thank you.” She curtsies, and makes to leave—only for Estinien to catch her hand.

“Hold, hold,” he says. “Don’t go dashing off just yet. If you must insist on running everywhere, you might as well enjoy the party a little. Shall we dance, _mademoiselle?”_

Sély's frank stare of astonishment does not dissuade him from his suggestion; he stares back at her every bit as frankly, if not more so.

“...We shall,” she finally answers, and lets herself be led onto the floor.


	6. Dances with Dragoons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Estinien indulges in frenetic dancing, much to Sély's detriment. Happily, however, her distress does not go unnoticed...
> 
> (Mostly Sélysette's POV with a switch to Livy at the end.)

* * *

Estinien is… not quite as good a dancer as Ser Lucia looked to be, though he is slightly more trained than Livorette. Sélysette thinks he suits his movements to his words: sometimes abrupt, sometimes more measured. Yet, somehow, they are at least _close_ to being in time with the music. It’s baffling.

“You look so shocked,” he remarks, swinging her through a sudden turn. “As though I were a dog prancing about on its hind legs.”

“I beg your pardon,” Sély replies. “First Lucia displays her footwork, and now you—I must admit to some surprise, but I do apologize for betraying the fact.”

Estinien cracks a smirk. “Ah, well. You needn’t grovel about it; I hardly advertise this half-baked skill.”

“Perhaps you should. You might improve it with repeat airings,” she returns dryly.

He only snorts. “Not a chance, Mademoiselle Babiole. I do this for select occasions only.”

The sight of two Azure Dragoons thus occupied excites much attention, to say the least. Sély catches glimpses of the guests’ reactions: widened eyes, parted lips, expressions of interest and amusement and the gods know what else. Whatever odd impulse possessed Estinien to ask her to dance in the first place is clearly still in control—far from being annoyed by their growing audience, he actually starts to show off. He whirls her through faster turns and longer steps, using every ilm of his height with a vengeance. The quicker they go, the more perturbed Sély becomes (and the farther everyone else seems to be backing away). But she will not show it this time; she plasters on a sweeter smile.

“I begin to think your skill in this is not half-baked at all,” she tells him. “In fact, it may be overdone.”

“Is that so?” He bares his teeth in the strangest approximation of a grin she has ever seen, and twirls her deftly under his arm. A moment later, he adds, “You needn’t dig your fingers in like that. I assure you I am not in the habit of flinging my partners across the room.” Pause. “Unless they ask.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “You don’t mean that… You had _better not_ mean that.”

“Ah, so you wish to be flung?”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Well, then,” and now they’re dancing _even faster_.

The gift flask, tucked in her skirt pocket, keeps striking against her thigh; it may leave a bruise if they keep moving at this pace. It’s all she can do to stay on her feet. Hopefully the song will end soon, lest she trip—or slip—or suffer some other mishap. _He’s dancing like he wants to run away from something… does he have to take me along?_

At last the final chords of the song land with a flourish. Estinien does the same: he whisks them to a stop, springs back a step and bows in almost a parody of the proper manner as the onlookers applaud. Despite his flippancy, Sélysette cannot help sinking into a responding curtsey, though her knees shake. Coming out of the dip, she wobbles and nearly falls—

—only for a firm hand to catch her elbow, steadying her.

“Your pardon, Mademoiselle Farouche, but are you quite all right?” It’s Ser Lucia, resplendent in her silver gown, her striking green eyes peering gravely down into Sély’s own.

Sély takes a slow, deliberate breath, willing her heartbeat to follow suit. “I think I shall be, in a moment.”

Alisaie is right on the knight’s (sensibly low) heels, coming around Sélysette’s back to hover protectively at her other elbow. She sniffs disdainfully in Estinien’s general direction. “You’ll put someone’s eye out or worse, dancing like that.”

Estinien is unfazed. “Doubtless that is why you did not intervene earlier.”

“We’re vigilant, not suicidal.”

“Thank you for the dance, ser,” Sély cuts in, inclining her head toward Estinien. “Excuse us.”

She lets her two self-appointed escorts walk her back to her seat at the head table, where Papa and the others seem much concerned about what on earth was going on just now. “Estinien,” is the only answer Sély can come up with, sipping the fresh cup of Ishgardian tea that young Honoroit has so kindly fetched for her. “Estinien was going on.”

“I must apologize for him,” Ser Lucia sighs. “He has ever been uncomfortable at formal events; he attends them but rarely, and then only for the Lord Commander’s sake. I had no idea that he either could or would deploy those grudgingly-taken dance lessons to such effect.”

Alisaie snorts. “He’s had _lessons_ , and he was charging about with Sélysette like a half-crazed boar? Twelve save us all, _I_ could do better than that.” There is a general chorus of agreement and similar assertions.

Monsieur Chuchubaji now speaks up. “Perhaps he merely got carried away in the moment. I cannot imagine that he would wish to do a fellow dragoon harm—if I remember rightly that you are a fellow dragoon?” he adds, peering earnestly at Sély. His eyes are an unusual lavender in his pinkish pale face; the general effect (save for his hair, the frosted green of a flower bud) is oddly similar to his daughter’s dress.

“That may be, Chu,” Madame Kekera chimes in, her swaying ponytail an uncannily similar shade to Livorette’s suit, “but a girl who’s been working so hard oughtn’t be run off her feet that way. Tataru tells me you’ve been quite determined to personally perfect every detail of this wedding,” she adds, with a warm smile just for Sély that makes her eyes (a reddish-violet color somewhat lighter than her daughter’s) positively sparkle. “It speaks well of your character.”

Count Edmont—he will always be Count, in Sély’s mind, regardless of his retirement—clears his throat. “Mistress Sélysette’s character has ever been so, in my experience. Not only determined, but devoted and diligent as well.”

This gives rise to another general chorus of assent; Sély hardly knows where to look. She takes another long sip of tea instead.

“And fleet enough of foot to keep pace with even the most boorish of partners—” Lord Emmanellain starts.

“—as my lord well knows,” Honoroit finishes, smoothly.

His master’s lips part in surprise. “…Uncalled for, my boy. But if you feel up to it in a bit, old girl, would you permit me a dance at a more reasonable tempo? I’m no master, but I’m not bad, if I do say so myself.”

Lord Artoirel gives a cough. “Indeed.” 

“Not you too!” Emmanellain complains, stung. “I do _practice_ , you know. I only meant to say I hoped- er, hope- to give Mistress Sélysette a dance she might enjoy, so as to make up for the first.”

“How… how very thoughtful,” Sélysette manages, now thoroughly flustered.

“If anyone has an obligation to make amends for Estinien’s behavior, it is me—on the Lord Commander’s behalf, of course,” Ser Lucia asserts. She gives half a bow towards Sély. “That is, of course, assuming that you care to take the floor again at all today.” 

“…I think I would care to, yes,” Sély replies, touched. “Thank you. Perhaps you might come back in a minute or two?”

“Then I shall take another turn about the room, and return anon.” Ser Lucia steps back, sweeps a full bow, and heads off with a purposeful stride.

Thus begins a whole succession of dance requests: Alisaie claims the one following Lucia’s, Emmanellain wants the one after that, and Artoirel offers for the next. Not seeing what else to do, Sély accepts them all. “Truly, you are too kind, all of you…”

“ _They_ are too kind,” Alisaie corrects cheerfully. “I, on the other hand, am simply spiteful-” at which a titter of surprised amusement escapes Sély’s lips- “-and wish to show up that disgraceful display. You deserve better.”

“Of course you do,” Papa says, reaching over to give his youngest a one-armed hug, and the conversation, blessedly, moves on to other subjects until Ser Lucia returns.

Their promised dance turns out to be a waltz. With Lucia in the lead, Sélysette finds herself practically floating through the steps; keeping her balance has never been easier.

“You look happier,” Ser Lucia remarks.

“You dance divinely,” Sély returns, smiling. “I must confess I’m somewhat dazzled.”

To her surprise, a blush rises to her partner’s face. “You are kind to say so. It has been long since I used these skills; I have but recently revived them.”

“You do not say!” Sély exclaims. “I assure you I’d never have guessed it. I suppose one never truly forgets.”

Ser Lucia’s blush deepens. “Ahem- er. Thank you. All for the honor of Ishgard, you know.”

The remainder of the waltz plays out in pleasant, even rosy silence. Sélysette wishes it did not have to end. “Is Ishgard’s honor restored?” she inquires somewhat breathlessly, coming out of a purposely extended curtsey.

Ser Lucia looks as if she does not quite know how to answer. They remain there, staring at each other, for several suspended seconds.

“My turn!” Alisaie declares, striding up to them, and the moment is broken. With a final sweeping bow, Ser Lucia retreats.

The next song is a lively one, full of fiddles and quick drumming. While Sélysette is uncertain, Alisaie is not: she begins with something like a Lominsan step dance, then embellishes it with kicks and stops and all manner of things that she seems to be making up on the spot. It’s intriguing, if difficult to follow.

“This is your idea of showing Estinien up, is it?” Sélysette asks, trying to imitate the shorter girl’s moves.

“Absolutely. It’s all about inviting, not pushing. And seeing what your partner can do.” Alisaie grins, blue eyes glittering with mischief; she enacts a set of heel-stomping scuffles, complete with handclaps, moving in a circle around an astonished Sély. “Go on, try that.”

Sély’s boot heels do not stomp quite as sharply, but the handclaps at least she can do. She finishes off with a kick of her own, earning an appreciative whoop. From there it’s a proper back-and-forth—each of them taking what the other does and adding something new—a joyous conversation that ends with the pair of them red-cheeked and panting and grinning like fools as a wave of applause rises from the room.

“Ha! Now that’s better,” Alisaie says with satisfaction.

“I think… perhaps… I need a drink,” Sélysette puffs.

They make for the beverage end of the buffet, arm in arm—well, Sély initially rests her hand on Alisaie’s offered elbow, held almost perpendicular to the shoulder. This arrangement is swiftly abandoned in favor of Sély’s arm draping about Alisaie’s shoulders and Alisaie’s arm wrapping round Sély’s waist.

“Ah, there you are,” says Livorette, from their right, whence she and Gogoha have wandered up.

“There we are? There _you_ are,” Alisaie returns as the other two fall into step with them. “I’d ask where you two have been, but I’m not certain I truly wish to know.” 

Livy waves an airy hand. “I make no allusions. Though we could certainly see you two cutting a rug. Or several rugs. Indeed, I’d wager you may have just put many weavers’ finest products in danger over about a fifty-malm radius.” (Gogoha rolls her eyes at this speech, but fondly.)

They have reached the beverages at this point. Sélysette detaches from Alisaie and seizes one of the waiting cups of water from the table.

“Several rugs mercilessly sliced, and my sister’s throat made a desert,” Livorette amends as Sély proceeds to drain nearly half her cup. “You have been busy.”

“It’s thirsty work. You ought to know.”

“I assure you I’ll live,” Sélysette puts in. “Also, Livy, I’m glad you caught us—I have something for you. Though we should sit down somewhere private first.”

Livorette perks up. “I know just the place,” she says, and leads the others over to a side door which opens onto a small terrace overlooking the waters of the Jadeite Flood. A long stone bench sheltered by shrubbery provides seating and seclusion in equal measure. “How’s this? We found it earlier, trying to figure out where the bathrooms were.” 

“Perfect,” says Sélysette. She extracts the gray suede pouch from her pocket and hands it over.

Light flashes off the flask as it slides into Livorette’s hand. “Oh- _oh,_ Gogo, look, it’s us! The flowers!” She passes it to her bride for examination.

“I… didn’t think you drank,” Alisaie remarks, puzzled.

“Oh, I don’t. It’s for tea! I can have warm tea all day long now!” Livy clasps her hands in delight, practically singing the last few words (privacy be damned).

“Check the back,” Gogoha points out, returning the flask.

Upon reading the inscription, Livy’s eyes promptly spill over with tears. “Oh _Sély—_ it’s gorgeous! You’re the best sister, come _here,”_ and she throws her arms around Sély’s neck. Then, releasing the hug and springing to her feet, “We have to go show Papa, this moment!” 

She slips the flask tenderly into the inside pocket of her waistcoat, pivots gaily about and begins to head back to the ballroom. Sély and the others exchange shrugs and smiles. 

“To Papa, then,” Sély says. She rises from her seat—

—and suddenly the world disappears.

Pitch blackness surrounds her on every side. In the distance, pinpricks of light like dim stars. There is a voice from nowhere and everywhere at once, ringing painfully through her head—

—then the world is back. The sounds of rushing water and rustling leaves seem far too loud as Sély bends over, bracing her hands on her thighs.

“Sélysette?” Gogoha asks, somewhere to her left.

“Sély, what’s wrong?” Livorette’s gaiters come hurrying up.

Sély’s head pounds, but she pulls herself upright. “I… I don’t know. Perhaps I didn’t sleep as well as I thought—”

— _bam_ , the blackness returns. Sélysette staggers forward as though it has struck her. The voice is louder now, though she still can’t understand it. It calls to her, shouts at her, enjoins, entreats—

— _bam,_ she can see again. Someone is under her right arm, supporting her, white hair shining in the sun. “I’ve got you,” Alisaie says, urgent. “Here, we’re going to sit down, okay? Livorette, get your linkpearl, call Tataru.”

“Right! Right,” and Livy starts fumbling through her pockets as Alisaie helps Sély back to the bench. The shaded stone is cool even through the wool of her skirt, and she tries to focus on that…

…no good. The blackness slams back over her head like the lid of a trunk; the voice thunders at her like a dragon, like a primal. “Stop! Please!” Sély tries to shout back at it, but her mouth won’t move, and she fears she could not make herself heard even if it did.

…The sunlight is dazzling. Her head is resting on something soft. Tataru is standing close, fuchsia eyes worried. “Sélysette, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” she croaks.

“We’re going to get you back to your room. Your father’s right here, and your sister too. Can you sit up?” Sély tries to shake her head. “That’s all right. Gently, now…”

“Here we go,” says Livorette above her. 

They are so careful, helping her to sit, and Sély is grateful for it. “Don’t think I can… walk.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Sély-pet.” Papa sounds a little unsteady himself, but Sély trusts him. Her Papa is strong. Though she is sorry to put him to the trouble. If she were Alisaie’s size, it wouldn’t be so—

—bad…

The blackness is no longer solid beneath her feet.

Sély pitches forward into the abyss.

* * *

One moment Sélysette is wavering but upright, carefully propped between her sister and her father. The next moment she’s dropping like a stone, and the pair of them just manage to catch her before she hits the ground.

Tataru is aghast. “She’s passed out. Twelve help us. She _promised_ she’d go to bed last night—”

“She did,” Papa says. “She most certainly did. I was there. And she seemed perfectly all right this morning.”

Livy listens to all this with one ear; the rest of her attention is wholly taken up with her sister. Sélysette’s head hangs limp; her whole body has gone slack, and her breath has slowed. “Papa, she needs to lie back,” she says, and Tataru agrees. Somehow they manage to get Sély reclining with her head on Livorette’s lap and her dress tucked neatly down around her. Her skirt is full enough to preserve modesty even as Tataru directs Alisaie to elevate Sély’s legs—apparently this will help to wake her up.

Except that it doesn’t.

Nothing does. Not loosening the ties at the back of her bodice, not removing her boots, not even unpinning her hair. It’s lucky the party was nearly over, for Livorette is of no mind to make merry. It’s also lucky that there are Ishgardian knights in attendance who are all too eager to help; between Lucia, Laniaitte, Emmanellain and Artoirel, Sélysette is swiftly loaded onto a stretcher and borne back to her bed. 

At first everyone tiptoes around, as with an ordinary invalid, until it becomes clear that even a whisper too close would not produce so much as a twitch of Sély’s eyelids. She lies there utterly motionless, pale and still as a statue. The effect is… eerie. Y’shtola’s aethersight cannot pinpoint the problem. Nor can Urianger’s beloved goggles. Both agree that something is undoubtedly wrong, but are at a loss as to what. The only certain thing is that no mere fatigue has put Sélysette into this state.

And Livy feels… awful. Horrible. There is nothing to fight, there is nothing to fetch. No task she can perform to bring her sister— _not_ “ _back to life,”_ _she isn’t dead, stop_ thinking _that…_ No way that anyone can see to wake her sister up.

They pack up and bring her back to the Rising Stones, courtesy of Cid and the _Excelsior_. Coultenet, Arenvald and the Boulder brothers help to transfer “Miss Sélysette” to the infirmary. Livy follows, shouldering both her bag and her sister’s; she deposits the latter at the end of the bed that has been made up for her and abruptly finds herself blinking back tears. 

There is nothing to fight. There is nothing to find. There is nothing, in short, that she can _do_. 

“Not yet there isn’t, you mean,” Y’shtola corrects her (oh. She’s been speaking aloud). “We’ve only just got back. There’s no need to despair.”

“Indeed not,” Urianger agrees. “Pray grant us a little time. Fear not, we shall learn what ails your sister, and how it may be cured.” 

And still Livy lingers, feeling helpless. Feeling lost. 

“Look,” says Gogoha. “Liv, look at me. We’ll get through this. We will. Besides, there’s at least one thing we can do now.”

She scrubs at her eyes. “What’s that?”

“We can…” Gogoha hesitates. “Her hair. We can brush out her hair for her. We can do that, right?” she adds over her shoulder to Clemence, who must have come in when Livy wasn’t looking. 

“Of course,” Clemence answers. “Soon as we get her settled in- and you can help with that too.”

“See, Liv?” Gogo leans up to kiss her cheek. “It’s going to be all right.”

Livy hopes it will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I just need you to know one thing: this was originally going to be so much worse. But then some of my readers expressed relief that certain Persons hadn't appeared, so... I altered the plans. However, it was pretty much always going to end like this: with Sélysette being Called/soul-snatched/however you want to phrase it, off to the First. Canon divergence ahoy!
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
